


Wrestling, So-Called

by boredsince1894



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, some swearing and some light talk about sex but that's about it, sort of i guess, these morons love each other so much, we're here for the love confessions lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredsince1894/pseuds/boredsince1894
Summary: What might have happened when Aziraphale finally agreed to go home with Crowley. It's set after the final episode and inspired by this post on Neil Gaiman's tumblr https://iant0jones.tumblr.com/post/185373672549/neil-gaiman-the-statue-in-crowleys-flat-itThe placing of the statue is different here than it is in Crowley's flat in the show, but please work with me here, his flat is so confusing. Also this isn't actually what I think happened. I don't think I currently have the emotional competence to think about these two idiots and how their actual love confession would go. I might explode.This is my first ever non-torchwood fic posted on AO3! Wild. I hope you enjoy!





	Wrestling, So-Called

     Clasping his hands together tightly, Aziraphale followed Crowley through the revolving door into the throne room of his flat. He curled his shoulders closer as if to comfort himself while simultaneously trying to completely and utterly disappear. A nonchalant wave of Crowley’s hand directed him to the center throne which gave the room its name. “Sit, while I get us some wine. We’re celebrating, after all.” And with a swagger and a spin of the gray slab he was gone, leaving Aziraphale to feel the bleak fear of their situation sink in. Was it better to be alone and therefore away from Crowley, or worse to feel the intimacy of Crowley trusting him, leaving him alone to settle in and get comfortable when he shouldn’t be? He really wasn’t sure. 

     Reluctantly obeying, he sank into the throne. It was surprisingly soft, despite the rigid back, and (were he human) he would have hated it for that. There was always a vulnerability to sitting down; it was like signing a contract agreeing to stay for more than that one drink. This was perfectly fine when Crowley visited the bookshop, but being here was uncharted territory; a minefield of anxiety, unprecedented domesticity, and Too-Closeness. Trying his best to put those thoughts out of his head, Aziraphale allowed himself to take in the whole room. 

     The throne itself, with its plush red and gleaming gold, was much more of the hedonistic stock that he had expected of Crowley’s taste in interior design. The rest of the room was cold and bare, with sharp edges and intimidating textures that seemed as if they wanted nothing more than to banish him from the flat, or at the very least fall and bludgeon him a few times. Top it all off with what was most likely an early (and legitimate) sketch of the Mona Lisa, and the whole thing was, overall, a mishmash of aesthetics he couldn’t quite understand. 

     Wait...there was one more thing that seemed out of place: a small statue sitting on a shelf cut out from the wall. It was a light colored stone, making it clash against the dark grays. The shape of wings could be made out from his distance, but that was all. Turning slowly to eye the door, he decided one quick look couldn’t hurt. 

     On further examination, Aziraphale found that he had been quite mistaken. 

     This could hurt a great deal. 

     The statue depicted two winged men in a conflicting embrace. Conflicting because he couldn’t quite tell if the man on top was violently dominating the other in hand-to-hand combat, or if it was more of an...intimate embrace. Before he could take a closer look, Aziraphale heard the swing of the revolving door, causing him to jump back slightly. “Oh, dear, I am sorry. I hope you don’t mind me looking around. I’ll just--” He grimaced before taking one of the glasses in Crowley’s hands. “Thank you.” 

     “Course. And it’s fine. I don’t mind.” He gestured to the statue with his wine glass. “What d’you think?” 

     “Well...well, it’s quite...provocative. Provocative as in thought-provoking, I mean,” he added hastily. 

     The demon nodded. “Bought it in Rome, actually. S’posedly it’s meant to represent Good and Evil wrestling, with Evil triumphing.” 

     Oh, good. Now he could feel a little more at ease, knowing that interpretation. “Well, a good thing the statue can’t predict the future,” he said with a weak laugh before taking a sip of his wine. 

     A shrug. “Personally, I just think they’re fucking.” 

     The gagging noise that came from Aziraphale as he choked on his wine suggested he was very much no longer at ease. He sputtered and coughed. “Really, my dear.” 

     “No, really, I’m serious. Those Catholic Italians have all sorts of weird ways to cope with their repressed lust and fascination with my side.” 

     A pause as Aziraphale considered that. He did remember being quite alarmed by the sheer amount of paintings and sculptures which depicted Satan as more human than anything else, and a handsome human at that. Still, this did not answer the question that was truly praying on his mind. “Crowley...if you think... _that_ is what they’re doing...then why did you buy it?” 

     The serpentine eyes flicked from Aziraphale’s face to the statue, then to his wine. “Drink up, Angel. We’ve got a still-standing universe to toast.” 

     A hand reached out and placed itself on the rim of Crowley’s glass, stopping it from reaching his lips. “Answer my question first. If today’s proved anything, it’s that the universe can wait.” 

     A pained expression washed over his face, if very briefly. The snark was, of course, firmly back in place within a second. “Ah, why d’you wanna know so much? It’s just an ancient piece of junk I thought was funny.” Another flippant flip of the wrist as he walked over to his throne and dropped into it, causing his wine to slosh over him. He snarled and miracled himself dry. 

     “ _Funny_?” Aziraphale walked around so he could keep Crowley in his sights, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to at the moment. He placed his glass on the desk and put his hands on his hips. “How is that _funny_?” 

     “Maybe all our separate sides needed was a good fuck and this whole Armageddon business wouldn’t have happened. That’s not even a _little_ bit funny to you?” 

     “No! No, it’s not at all funny. We’re the only ones on either side who get along, and--” The rising panic pushed out a puff of a sigh as he wrung his hands. “Oh, I shouldn’t have come,” he whimpered before heading past the revolving door and down the hallway. 

     Crowley groaned and leapt to his feet to follow him. “Aziraphale! Oh, _come on_ , Angel. Look, I’m sorry!” He managed to grab the wrist of his jacket. “It’s just...you seemed tense, so I thought I’d crack a joke, lighten the mood. I’m sorry it didn’t land like I meant it to.” 

     “No, it most certainly did not.” He yanked his sleeve away and smoothed out the crease Crowley had created by tugging on it. “It landed--well, it landed...like a lead balloon.” He sighed, trying to mellow his tone. “Please...I shouldn’t have come here. We may have avoided the apocalypse and trials by hell fire and holy water, but that will not suddenly absolve all suspicion! We must be careful.” 

     “Suspicion of what, exactly?” 

     “Of...of….” He sputtered. “Well, you know. Plotting and such.” 

     “Oh, we’re past plotting and they know it. You know it. So stop lying to me--or better yet, stop lying to yourself--and tell me what’s really bothering you. Because it’s not the fear of Upstairs or a stupid bloody statue.” 

     “Excuse you, Crowley, but you’re one to talk! You tried to avoid the question of why you bought it in the first place, so _don’t_ act like this is any easier for you.” 

     “I did that for your sake, not mine!” Setting his glass down on his desk beside Aziraphale’s, Crowley stood up and leaned in close. He bore his teeth to try his best at looking intimidating, when really he was simply gritting them, bracing himself against what he was going to say. Six thousand years and a nearly-avoided apocalypse, he decided, were enough to finally stop them from tip-toeing around each other. He’d had enough. “Everything’s always about treading softly with you. Always holding back. Six thousand years of looking away when it gets to be too much and I’m sick of it!” He somehow leaned in even closer, their noses about to touch. 

     “You’re not afraid Upstairs’ll think we’re plotting. You’re afraid they’ll think we’re like that stupid bloody statue, and most of all, you’re afraid because you know you _want_ them to think that. You want to shove it in their big, pearly-white, blissfully gleaming, idiotic faces just how much we want each oth--” He stopped and leaned back as he saw the tears forming in Aziraphale’s eyes. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Angel.” 

     “As you should be,” he chuckled wetly, dabbing at his eyes. “I’ve dreamt of that being some grand romantic moment for decades, and now you’ve gone and ruined it by making me cry.” 

     Despite the crying and the ruining bit, Crowley’s heart leapt with a little delight at that. “So there’s hope for me yet?” 

     “Only if you have a complete do-over, and do it properly.” 

     “Aziraphale...I….” He grumbled. “Can I go back to yelling? I had a real momentum going there, and—“ 

     “Nope. Say it properly. And _don’t_ make it about the statue.” 

     He took a breath. Screw this all the way to Hell and back. “Aziraphale….I love you. I mean, I’m _in_ love with you. Actually, I have been since—hang on, what do you mean, _decades_? It’s only been _decades_ for you?” 

     A blush crept up Aziraphale’s cheeks as he attempted to avoid Crowley’s gaze. “I’m not saying I didn’t _feel_ it, my dear. Merely that it took me longer to realize….I am sorry. But I needed my place in Heaven, just as you needed yours in Hell.” 

     “Angel, how many times do I have to say it? We don’t have a place in Heaven or Hell. I’m not sure we ever did.” 

     “I realize that now! I do. And….” He paused before reaching for Crowley’s hand. “And I do love you, too.” 

     He let out a tiny squeak as Crowley rushed to pull him into a kiss. It was rough at first, but slowly Crowley seemed to settle into a more gentle pace, savoring this moment for the monumental significance and brilliance of it all. At least, that’s how Aziraphale would have described it. Monumental and brilliant. And perhaps he should tell Crowley that. That it was-- 

     “If you say ineffable, I’ll discorporate right here and now.” 

     Aziraphale laughed. “No, I wasn’t going to say that.” 

     “Good….Well, what were you going to say then?” 

     A small coy smirk wormed its way onto Aziraphale’s face. “So,” he said, pointedly ignoring the question, “did you buy that statue because you _wanted_ it to be us?” 

     There’s nothing quite like the sight of a flustered demon, Aziraphale decided. “Well, I mean--sort of. Maybe. Something like it. I dunno. Aren’t you moving a little fast for an angel? We’ve only just kissed after six thousand years. Are you sure you won’t, you know, break out in hives if you indulge in a little lust? Or maybe--” 

     A soft, reassuring kiss shut him up. “We can take this at whatever pace we want. We have all the time in the world. Well. Until the next war comes.” 

     “And who knows when that will be?” 

     “Exactly. So…all the time in the world. It can start with a single night.”


End file.
